Homages To The All Used Up- The Songs Of Bruce “Utah” Phillips

By Zack James

It is funny how when you see somebody in a certain context then see them out of that context and you don’t recognize them at first until something gets triggered in your head and you make the connection. Same thing with names, names of people. At least that is what Jack Callahan thought when he asked his old-time friend from high school back in the 1960s, Seth Garth, whom he had kept more or less in touch over the years to go to the Club Passim in Harvard Square to see what he thought was a new talent on the folk scene, a guy named Bruce Phillips. Seth, an old-time music critic for the now long defunct alternative newspaper out in California The Eye, laughed heartily at Jack’s faux pas since he knew exactly who Jack was talking about, talking about the old time reprobate, hobo prince, anarchist folksinger Utah Phillips who was not only not a new talent but had been around since Hector was a pup. Seth had to chide Jack about his “losing a step or two” in the memory game as he aged since he gave him chapter and verse about how they had already heard this “new talent” way back when at the Caffe Lena out in Saratoga Springs when they were visiting a cousin of another of their crowd, Sam Lowell, who was into the folk minute of the 1960s.        

Jack did not immediately draw the reference until Seth gently reminded him that they both had been extremely impressed both by Utah’s (Bruce’s) songs and his storytelling-his storytelling that hit some chords. See Utah was the classic “protest” folk singer although unlike others of that genre who were honing in on the topical issues of the day, war, civil rights, counterculture, Utah honed in on more generic social commentary. Above all about the downtrodden of the earth. Not so much the working stiffs of the world although he spoke and performed benefits for many worker causes over the years but that layer below that, the hobos, tramps and bums of the world. A very different “clientele” to pay homage to since these elements were generally seen as the raggedly edge of society, the refuge who could not be reclaimed and were left for whatever reason, drugs, alcohol, mental illness, heel, just pure genetic crankiness to fend for themselves down in the mean streets of America (and the world).      

Jack, now that he had been prodded by Seth’s memories, started thinking about one song that Utah had sung that night in Saratoga Springs, I Remember Loving You. The idea behind the song was that even old forsaken hobos, tramps, bums (there are definite social distinctions among those three categories of the dregs of society recognized even among those brethren so the three are joined here) could have ancient memories of love lost. Love lost and still thought about through all the faded suitcases, all the worn, beyond shoe leather, all the railroad trains hopped, all the small towns passed through, worse, stopped at and not welcomed, all the possessions left behind at some jungle camp when the place was raided, all the tough cops and railroad bulls who made life hell for the travelling nation. All the frozen boxcars strewn with hay for sleep, all the wasted nights out in nowhere, all the loneliness hoping that around the next turn that a drink, maybe a smoke, would materialize out of nowhere. Tough times, tough lyrics to think about when all was said and done. A wasted life no question. But not all was in vain, not all had been wasted because one frozen starless night that hobo, tramp, bum remembered some old Phoebe Snow who made a difference once, not enough to let him go the distance with her but made a different.

Check this one out and a lot of other such treasures on one of Bruce “Utah” Phillips many CDs. And remember who told you to do so.